Upon Getting my Mail Just Now

Where the fuck are my Christmas cards?

Three days and nothing but junk mail.

Fuck you, Ron Paul, disguising your propaganda as a Christmas Card. You do not have my vote.

I sent out EIGHTY cards--I expect some RECIPROCATION PEOPLE!


Merry Christmas.




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Black Day

*Cheating piece of shit.

Independence Day

Though we've lived in Reno for nearly six years now, we had never bothered to attend the fabulous Fourth of July fireworks at Lake Tahoe. So this year, I insisted that we make the trip, even though it meant that I would have to be seen in a bathing suit for the first time since I was pregnant. Horrors! But I did it, and I even managed to strike a pose when my mother called out for a snapshot. And here I am, for all the blogosphere to see...

That's me in the one-piece...I don't think I'll ever be comfortable enough to expose my stretch marks to the world.

Tah-dah! I was so happy to be relaxing on the beach for the whole day that I managed to strike my own blow for independence...independence from my body anxiety. (At least for the day.)

Micaela and I got up at 4:30--AM that is--to be at the beach by six so that we would be assured a good spot when the beach opened at eight. Even at 6:00 we were sixth in line to be let in. After about half an hour, there were twenty or so cars waiting, and people were getting out of the cars behind us and sneaking out to the beach before it opened to claim prime spots. Because, you know, they're special and shouldn't have to wait in line behind the people that got there earlier. Sometimes I just hate people. Like this time at the Cake concert when several people shoved in front of us because "We're really big fans." Or the guys during the fireworks display who refused to sit down--even though they were blocking the view of dozens of people and even though their own girlfriends were tugging on their arms trying to get them to sit. (I don't know about you, but wouldn't that be a deal-breaker?) When people started calling out for them to sit down, one of them shouted out, "I can stand taller if you want!" I mean, WHY? Why do people have to be like that? Why do people think that on a beach or concert full of thousands of people, they should receive special treatment?

After the assholes refused to sit down, I think I might have commented--possibly in a loud voice--that I hoped their dicks shriveled up and fell off, and hopefully soon, before they were allowed to breed.

That wasn't right, either, but I do have a temper.

But the fireworks were spectacular--well worth the wait and the crowds and the assholes. I didn't know they made fireworks quite that big...I suspect that Gandalf was on a barge on the lake, orchestrating the whole thing. I tried to take pictures, but they were all puny in comparison, and many of them were tainted with asshole head.

Oh, and here is a free parenting tip for the day. If going to the beach with a young'un, invest in a good raft. It can serve as a raft, a kiddie pool, and, later in the evening, a bed.

Yet Another Gender Post

In the spirit of getting myself writing again, I figured that whipping myself into a frenzy would be the best motivation, so here is yet another rant on gender issues:

First of all, it should be known that I am a scrapbooker. I loves me the scrapbooking. But one thing that I do not like about my hobby is its gender politics. For some reason, scrapbooking is considered "women's work"--that keeping the family history is the job of the woman-folk. That, however, does not keep me from doing it, nor is it the main theme of this post. It does mean, though, that I read a lot of scrapbooking magazines and that while reading such magazines I see a lot of layouts that glorify the "proper" gender identity of children. I am not going to post images of such pages here, though, because it is against the scrapbooking code to snark on other people's pages--let's just say that there are a lot of pages and products out there that announce "100% GIRL" or "All Boy" or "Girlie Girl." These titles are inevitably accompanied by photos of young boys and girls performing activities appropriate to their stereotypical gender roles: girls having tea parties in princess outfits or boys pushing toy trucks through mud...you get the idea.

This really pushes my buttons.

Especially the ones that read "100% girl" or "100% boy." What does this mean? Thank goodness my child is not a hermaphrodite? I'm so glad that Sally never grew a testicle--she's 100% GIRL! No breasts on little Billy--he's 100% BOY! And I know what these pages are supposed to mean, but really, the underlying implication is, I'm so glad my kid isn't queer.

Just once I'd like to see a page that says "Girlie Boy" or "Not-All Girl" or maybe even "75% Girl, 25% ?" I guess what I'm pointing out is that if Hillary Clinton represents one aspect of our society's deeply-rooted sexism, then parental expectations represent another. Most people want their children to follow strictly maintained gender roles, and when they do, it's a cause for celebration. When they don't, it's a cause for silence. Sons should never want to cruise the "pink aisle" at Target, and daughters should not enjoy the, er, "black aisle?" (I'm not sure what to call the aisle dedicated to Legos, Hot Wheels, and action figures--the "Action Aisle?")

And I know that there are those of you out there (Mom) who will say, "What's the big deal? A kid's gonna like what a kid's gonna like...you can't control that." But my point is this: by setting up these standards of what constitutes "All Boy" or "100% Girl," we also set up a framework for deviancy. A boy who wants a pink fairy Barbie is deviant, as is a girl who'd rather have a Millenium Falcon Lego set (Mmmmm...Millenium Falcon Lego set...drool!) We don't tell the children they are deviant, but we show them they are by celebrating those children who are not. So kids are not just "liking what they are going to like"; they are struggling with what they should like.

Of course, I'm the big hypocrite here because if M. decided to like Barbies, I would say, "Too bad...no Barbies in my house." So I guess I am encouraging her to reject her stereotypical gender role as much as another mother might be encouraging her daughter to accept it. I feel I have to do this, though, not only as a mother, but as a woman. Because it's only a short step from this "Girlie Girl"...


To this one...

click on picture for larger view

If this is Karma, I'd Sure Like to Know What I Did Wrong!

So today I was planning on posting my thoughts on the Democratic Candidates Debate, and I was even composing it in my head while I drove home. Then I made the mistake of checking the mail on my way in the door.

Today I received not one, not two, but three rejection letters from community colleges that I had applied to.

Shit.

Now I have to just keep writing in order to prevent myself from burying my head under my pillow and bawling or eating everything in the pantry to fill the giant, gaping hole that I feel in my gut.

I am just so frustrated and so angry at myself and so depressed. I don't know what else to do with these fucking applications! My CV looks great. I have three glowing letters of recommendation from world-famous professors. I have a fantastic cover letter pointing out all of my exceptional qualifications and emphasizing my love of teaching. And still, not even one interview. Nada. Nobody wants to see my fabulous teaching portfolio; nobody cares about my amazing student evaluations; nobody wants to discuss my teaching philosophy.

I wish that I could just say "Screw them...their loss" and move on. Except that there is no school waiting in the wings to snatch me up, thanking their lucky stars that those other schools didn't want me. NOBODY wants me! Not even my own fucking school that I don't even want to teach at.

I could have maybe handled one rejection today, but three? That has used up all of my ability to cope for the week.

I just feel so powerless. Teaching is the one area in life where I feel fully confident about myself. I know I am a GREAT teacher. My students tell me that (well, except for the 10% of them who are never happy with the professor unless she says "Hey! Why don't we all just cut out this semester, and I'll give you all As? What say?"). My professors tell me that. My heart tells me that. But the job market? The job market tells me that I am a complete failure. That my chosen profession, the one that I have spent an obscene amount of time in school training to do, is out of my reach. That I cannot do the job I love to do and should instead accept my fate as a stay-at-home-mom because I will never, ever amount to anything else.

And I don't mean to snark on S.A.H.M.s here, but I, personally, do not have what it takes to be a S.A.H.M. I am so completely miserable not working that I can hardly function. I have put so much time and money into this teaching gig--it's what I want to do; it's what makes me happy--and I CAN'T DO IT!

Then I feel that the more desperate I become, the less chance I have of getting a job. It feels kind of like infertility that way. Desperation leads to failure, but how can you keep from being desperate when you are FAILING?!

And friends, please stop asking me how I am every time you see or talk to me. Unless you hear otherwise, nothing has changed. Believe me, if I got a job the world would know. You could not shut me up about how happy I was. I would call each and every one of you personally to let you know that I had SUCCEEDED. Being constantly asked, "So, how are you doing?" only forces me to think of the real answer to that question. It only forces me to come up with an appropriate lie. It only forces me to say "I'm OK" when really I am far from it. I know you mean well--I know it means you care, but I am definitely not okay and I won't be until something in my life manages to go as I had hoped it would.

Okay. Enough misery for now. I am sorry to rant on like this, but I needed to holler at someone, so I chose you.

Yet Another Reason to Worry for my Daughter

A few weeks ago, my mother, sister, and I made an emergency run to the mall because we were suddenly overwhelmed with the need for Cinnabon. While there, we witnessed this atrocity:

This poster was huge--about 48" tall--and pasted right in the middle of the mall on one of those ad islands. Initially I thought, "What? An ad for hookers right here in the mall?!" But no, after reading it over a few times and translating the hip hop slang into English, I realized that this was an anti-smoking ad. As best as I can piece together, the message is: Guys--if you want slutty, mostly naked women to like you, then you better not smoke because slutty women only like smokefree men. Slutty, mostly-naked women--it does not matter whether you smoke or not, as long as you remain slutty-looking and convince boys that they shouldn't smoke.

What the hell?!

This is wrong on so, so many levels. I imagine M., 13 years old, prowling the mall with some of her other teenage friends and seeing this ad. What is the message that they are really getting? That it is not cool to smoke? Or that in order to be cool they need to look like hookers? The group that put out this ad claims that their goal is to overcome the tobacco industry's manipulation of the hip hop community. While an admirable goal, it seems to me that they are advancing it by sacrificing the dignity of young women, and young black women in particular. If the tobacco industry is undermining young urban youth, is not this organization undermining the self respect of young women?

I really had to choke down my scream of indignation while standing there in the mall with my baby. Instead, I just looked at her and explained, "This is never okay."

What do you think? Has giving birth made me into a prude? Am I the only one who finds this more than a little disturbing?

Random Bullets

Okay, so I was doing really well with the blog for a few weeks and then, not so good. I have had a really busy, stressful couple of weeks and I hope you all forgive me for becoming a bit lax in my writing. So, to catch up, I am going to steal an idea that I see in lots of other blogs I read and do some random bullets.

• As an update from my last blog: I was so looking forward to Meredith's untimely demise, and then she comes back from the brink...damn. Ian was really hoping for the show to change its name to Yang's Anatomy--he, too, was disappointed. Maybe this near death experience will make Meredith a little more grateful. In the meantime, Battlestar Galatica continues to be the greatest show on television. Those characters are grateful...grateful for every day their lives aren't interrupted by Cylon attacks, grateful for every day that they continue to survive when the rest of the human (?) race has been annihilated. So, for those of you who have told me (rightfully so) that I am expecting too much out of GA, seeing that it is just a glorified soap opera, I say, BG has proven to me that shows can be smart and sexy and entertaining without being annoyingly overly-dramatic and completely unrealistic.
• Applying for community college jobs sucks. It sucks worse than applying for grad school even. I am so sick of answering the same questions over and over again in the same application packet. When asked for the third time to list my degrees and teaching experience, I am so tempted to write, "Look at my CV, cover letter, transcripts, letters of recommendation, or the annoying on-line application I have already filled out. Are the members of your search committee so stupid and lazy that they can't figure out that this information has already been presented to them FIVE DIFFERENT TIMES?!" But somehow I think that would hinder my chances of getting an interview.
• Now that Matilda has figured out how to roll from her back to her belly, she has conveniently forgotten that she already knew how to roll from her belly to her back. This results in many cases of screeching face-down baby. No amount of coaching convinces her that she can rescue herself from the horrors of tummy time. So she continues to constantly roll herself over onto her belly only to begin shrieking for somebody to roll her back. Very annoying.
• Early springtime in Reno. Air-conditioning on in the car one day, ice scraper out the next. I once had a very clever classmate tell me that "There is no Spring in Reno...Winter and Summer just fight for a while." I'm rooting for Summer.
• Our house is for sale. The friends we are renting from decided to put it on the market, so now we have realtors and strangers poking through our home all the time. This only cements in my mind my dislike of realtors. They call at the last minute wanting to show the house and then get all prissy with me if I can't be home exactly when they need me to be. Dear Realtor X: We are renters who gain nothing from the sale of this house except an eviction notice. The fact that we allow you in at all is only because we rent from friends. Do not expect us to go out of our way to make life more convenient for you. No, Saturday from 2-4 is not a great time for us...how would you feel if somebody asked you to cut your day off in half? Oh wait, you get a big fat commission from the sale of this house. Tell you what--if you show up with a twenty every time you want to show the house, I'll be more obliged to go out of my way for you. I may even let you in the house when you show up 45 minutes early and I have just gotten ready to take a shower. Otherwise, bugger off. Sincerely, The Renter Who Hates You.
• My new favorite thing is Charlie and Lola. My rampant Anglophilia made it necessary for me to start Tivo-ing this lovely British children's show, and now I can't get enough. I'm pretty sure I like it more than M. She's still on Elmo (don't even get me started on Elmo). Oh how I wish that I could live in Britain so that M. would grow up to be witty and well-spoken like Lola. Well, I guess she can grow up witty and well-spoken here, but it's just not the same without the accent.
• Finally, here are some new pictures of M. She is awfully cute, but I don't think she has any future in baby modeling since the minute she sees a camera she decides to start chewing on her lower lip while examining her navel. These two pictures were gleaned out of about 3 dozen taken. Thankfully, our photographer Heather is very, very patient.

Why Grey's Anatomy Can Kiss my Ass

So Ian and I didn't get around to watching Grey's Anatomy until last night (a sure sign that the thrill is wearing off--with the show, that is, not with Ian), and instead of being moved by this "unforgettable special episode of Grey's Anatomy," I was totally pissed off. I've just about had it with these doctors and their constant fits of petty depression. This week, Meredith tries to "disappear" into her bathtub and is comforted by Izzy who "ate everything out of the fridge last night." Why are these women so constantly unhappy?! What is so bad about their lives ?! Let me lay it out for you: These people work in an amazing hospital where they love what they do--they love it so much, in fact, that they never truly want to leave work. And why would they? I mean, all of their best friends work in the same place...they get to talk with their friends, eat with their friends, and laugh with their friends whenever they want. And let's not forget the enormous amounts of money they get paid to do this. Not that the money matters; all they ever spend it on is booze, rent, and student loan payments (except for Izzy, who has no student loans, and Meredith, who inherited her huge, gorgeous Seattle home). Let's not leave out the fact that they all conveniently fall in love with people they work with, which makes sense since everyone in the hospital is ridiculously good-looking!

And then the complaining begins...

All they do is bitch, bitch, bitch, about how hard their lives are, what a struggle it is to be them. Please. I wish my life was such a struggle! Let's see...what would my life be like if I lived in the Grey's Anatomy world?

Well, first of all, I'd be brilliant at what I do. (Oh wait, I already am! Skip that one) Then, I'd have a great job at a well-funded, private college where, conveniently enough, all of my students just happen to write the most interesting papers I have ever read (well, maybe not all of them, but at least one a week). Ian works there, too. He teaches in the Math department. We both makes tons of money, but we don't really care about that because we own our home outright (an old beauty with tons of space and character), we don't have a lot of expenses (let's throw in some on-site daycare for Matilda), and we already have tons in savings thanks to that 9 mil that Ian inherited from a terminally-ill heiress he used to tutor. Work really is my social life because everyone I work with is super-cool (and super-hot), not to mention all the people in Ian's department who are also fun and hip. We all like to eat together in the quad and make jokes about the dorks from the Science building. Let's see, what else? Oh yeah, there's that hot guy from the Veterinary Medicine department who found me irresistible, but Ian took care of him. It's so fun when guys fight over me. Yes, my job is stressful--and sometimes my students fail, but it's what I've always wanted to do, and I'm just so damned good at it! Besides, if this gig doesn't work out I can always fall back on my career as a lingerie model or just retire and live off the interest on our savings.

Wow, that would suck. I can see where I'd have so much to complain about. I, too, might have to drown myself in the bathtub or eat everything in the fridge (not that it would matter, since I never gain weight no matter how much I eat).

Give me a break.

I realize that this is a TV show and therefore the characters have to live completely unrealistic lives in order to remain interesting, but I really think the writers are pushing it. Can't we have just one episode where all of the characters are just like "Wow, I am so damned lucky! Today I think I will revel in being me!" No, they just deal with a massive tragedy where their response is to argue about who gets to scrub in on whose emergency surgery. This was interesting for two seasons, but, as I said earlier, the thrill is wearing off.

Oh well. At least Survivor started this week.

A Not-So-Big Idea

So I was watching Oprah yesterday (because the draw of Oprah is just too powerful at 4:00 when Daddy is almost home and I'm tired and frustrated and have begun to question this whole Mommy business and Oprah just might have the answers for me), and she was talking with Moms who turned their small ideas into multi-million dollar empires, making all of the Moms at home feel stupid and inadequate for not coming up with ridiculously simple ideas of their own to make millions because hey, who knew it was just that easy, when I thought of this ridiculous thing that I had seen in the classifieds of one of the parenting magazines that I got a free subscription to just by having a baby (because that is the real reason to have children...free subscriptions!), and I thought that I'd share it with my readers because it's way more fun to mock people with really stupid ideas then to envy the ones with the good ideas! (Wow! That was all one sentence!)

So here it is, the thing you just cannot live without...the Baby Shaker!


Now how did I get through nine months of pregnancy without a cheap piece of plastic with bells attached so that I could know when my baby was moving?! Because Lord knows I couldn't, you know, feel her moving or anything! Or that anybody couldn't just look at my belly and see the Alien-esque undulations as M. did her best to escape through my navel! And I could have had this treasure for only $21.95! What a bargain! I guess I'll have to go on-line right now and buy this essential item for anybody I know who is pregnant so that they won't suffer this loss as I have. Oh wait! I'm not going to do that because this is the most ridiculous and useless thing I have ever seen! I think even Lillian Vernon would pass on this contraption! I mean seriously, people....seriously.

(If you want a really good laugh, though, go to the web-site and watch the "action video.")

So here's some of my big ideas, Oprah...maybe I will win your contest and become the next multi-millionaire and then I can be on your show and we could maybe even do lunch:

1) Robot nanny. Who can afford full time help anymore except rich Republicans who hire their child care illegally from third world countries? Weren't we promised robots by now? I've tried the whole dog-nanny thing from Peter Pan, but Grendel didn't want to wear the ruffled hat. I need me a robot! I'll get Ian working on the prototype right away.

2) Self-cleaning bottles. The minute you replace the cap on a used bottle, a poof! and a whoosh! and the bottle is clean and sterile and ready to go. I'm sure the science for this exists somewhere.

3) No-mess baby food. I imagine this would work something like those magnet-dust kid's games, but the food is attracted to saliva and just sucks right into the baby's mouth as soon as it dribbles down her chin. Or maybe some sort of surgically implanted tiny vacuum just under the tongue. I hate to put the bib people out of business, but this is a competitive world.

I think I'll go apply for patents on all these ideas right away. Maybe I'll call whatever attorney got the Baby Shaker people their patent because he must be very, very good.

Babies on a Plane

(I think some people might prefer the snakes)

Last week M. and I took a trip to Kansas City to visit the family. The question this begs, of course, and that I keep hearing, is "How was the baby on the plane?" The simple answer is that she was fine. To be fair, though, M. is an exceptionally well-behaved baby, and I wasn't expecting it to be a problem. However, that is not the only reason M. was well-behaved. I spent the 4 hours there and the 4 hours back making sure that she was entertained and happy the entire trip...and it was EXHAUSTING. As I explained to Ian: "Imagine that you have to sit on the couch with M. for 4 hours without watching TV or lying down. Imagine that you have to keep her from fussing for that entire 4 hours." Not pleasant. But that's the responsibility of being a parent...preventing your child from being a pain in everyone else's ass. That is why this apparently newsworthy story about the family who got kicked off of a plane because their 3-year-old was throwing a tantrum pisses me off so much. It makes the rest of us look bad. It is kids like that who caused people to look at me on the plane as though I were wearing a burka while fingering suspiciously large fingernail clippers. I was flying Southwest, an airline that has an open-seating policy. I boarded first (because that's the big perk of flying with an infant) and then had to endure getting the fish eye from every passenger who boarded after me. (This is, I might point out, an excellent way to get a row of seats to yourself.) And you know what happened? Upon landing, I got comments from strangers after every flight about how good my baby was, what a pleasure it was to fly with her, and how they wished every baby could be so good. I hate to deny my daughter her props, but I like to think that I had something to do with that. Thank you, Tracy, for being a responsible parent and making sure your baby was happy and quiet no matter how exhausting it was to you. Thank you for not letting your baby scream as though that was your God-given right as a parent. Thank you for being a decent and considerate human being.

Oh, you're welcome world...you're very, very welcome.

I wish I could send flowers to that flight crew who kicked that family off the plane. Why is it that some people think that parenthood allows them the opportunity to behave like assholes? That nobody else on a plane (or in movie theaters, or in waiting rooms, or in restaurants) matters but them? And that nobody can say anything about it without being stigmatized as some sort of child-hating, evil bastard? And hey? Where's my frikkin' free ticket for being a good parent? Why do the assholes get to fly wherever they want courtesy of the airline and I just get a pat on the back? Because assholes profit, my friends, assholes profit.

M. and I prepare to board for her first flight

My Crusade for Proper Use of Apostrophes Continues...

To the driver of this car: I was not taking your picture because you were hot or because I was impressed with your display of fandom...only because you cannot use apostrophes correctly. Pretty diappointing, huh?

Confessions of a Professional Proofreader

Recently, my friend and fellow blogger Doug has been posting photographs of grammar errors he finds while out and about (see here and here). Maybe it's an English major thing, but I find this to be a completely normal and necessary practice. The world would be a better place if more people took care with their grammar. Now I, too, have started photographing annoying errors when I see them. It gives me a sense of validation (and, I suppose, smug superiority) not only to identify these errors, but to record them and expose them in all their wrongful glory. Here are two that I've found in the last week:

Okay, how does one pronounce this word? "Spe-kyle?" "Spe-kale?" And, more importantly, I'm sure that somebody at this restaurant has realized this error, yet they leave it there as though it doesn't matter. Don't they have paint thinner? A scraper? Anything? I know that not everyone is as OCD as I am, but really! Have some pride! This is a business! Frankly, I worry about eating a $5 lunch speCIAL prepared by somebody who can't even bother to correct their window! Jeesh!




On to a more subtle but no less annoying error:


It may take you a minute...... Got it yet?

This error is especially egregious because the improper use of "'til" is one of my greatest pet peeves, and I long ago made the correct use of apostrophes my own personal grammar crusade in my classroom. (Along with the proper use of the word "literally," but I'll save that for another post.) I am constantly circling the word "till" on my students papers. The word is UNTIL or 'TIL! To be fair, Fox does use the correct form of 'til for the show itself; it is only the local affiliate that makes the error. They also advertise That '70s Show as That 70's Show. (By the way, television shows are italicized, NOT put in quotations.) So, for the benefit of everyone, here is the rule: An apostrophe indicates that something is missing, as in until or 1970s. Now you know. Don't you feel better? I do.

P.S. I know that this post claims to be posted on 11/3, making it seem as though I've already missed a day for Nablopomo, but I write late at night, and it's not my fault if Blogger doesn't recognize 12:30 at night as still being 11/2.

To All Those People Who Keep Saying That Matilda Looks Exactly Like Ian

Bite me.











Matilda at 1 month














Tracy at 2 months

"It has to be official, and it has to be urine!"

Since starting this blog some 16 weeks ago, I have, on several occasions, been sorely tempted to point out some of the more, uh, visceral aspects of pregnancy. The need to do this stems not from an attempt to gross out my readership but rather as a way of showing (much as Playboy Playmates Vicky Iovine and Jenny McCarthy have done before me) what a truly embarrasing and, frankly, disgusting process pregnancy really is. Alas, however, I am not a Playboy centerfold, creating in me a sense of modesty and propriety that prevents me from pulling back the curtain on such details.

Until today.

I have been required, for the last 24 hours, to collect all of my urine for analysis. And when I say all of my urine, I mean every drop. For 24 hours. This is the final indignity. I will suffer in silence NO MORE! So here it is: "Tracy's explicit list of what to expect when you're expecting that nobody will lead you to expect right up until the time when you feel like an absolute freak of nature and break down and tell your Dr who will inevitably tell you that it is 'perfectly normal' except that nobody ever told you about it so how could it be 'perfectly normal?'"

Basically, it all comes down to bodily fluids. Now, most people know that pregnant women have to pee a lot, and some people even know that a pregnant woman's blood volume increases by 50% during the course of her pregnancy (thus the "pregnant glow"). What nobody mentions, though, is that this increase in blood and urine is only a small part of a massive surge in every kind of fluid your body is capable of producing. What I have learned (no thanks to all of those pregnancy books) is that your life becomes ruled by the need for all of these fluids to escape your body in one way or another. Here are the top ten offenders:

1) PEE: How is it possible to produce more pee than the liquid you actually intake? A scientific mystery? I'm not sure. What I do know is that if you are ever in line for a bathroom and a pregnant woman is behind you, let her go first! I guarantee she has to pee worse than you.

2) BLOOD: I'm just going to hypothesize here that the reason pregnant women become so clumsy is due to a subconscious need on their body's part to wound itself to let out some of that blood. 50% more blood, people. That's nearly 4 extra pounds of blood in the average woman. For some women, the blood begins to leak out of the nose, although in my case it chooses to ooze out of my gums. Every time I brush my teeth I look like something out of a horror movie--the crazy pregnant woman who bites the heads off bunnies or something. Gross.

3) VOMIT: Enough said.

4) DROOL: Here's where we get into the weird stuff. Nobody ever told me that pregnancy would cause me to become a drooling idiot. Literally. Somewhere in my first trimester I began drooling so badly during my sleep that I had to put a layer of towels on my pillow. I've given up on the towels now and have just come to the conclusion that when my pregnancy is over my pillow is just going to have to be removed to a biohazard facility. Sleeping "on the wet spot" has taken on a whole different meaning for me.

5) SNOT: Pregnancy and hay fever. Not a good combination. During one week in my second trimester, the pollen count soared in Reno, and my allergies took off. Not just any allergies, though. Bionic allergies. The snot just would not stop. I didn't know that a human being could produce so much frikkin' snot. I snotted so hard that the eustachian tube in my ear got thrown out of whack and I couldn't hear anything out of it for a week while the nasal steroids I was prescribed took effect. Good times.

6) TEARS: Most books claim that pregnant women become emotional due to fluctuating hormones. I believe it is the pregnant body's way of releasing more fluid in the form of tears (and let's not forget snot). We just need to cry. At anything. I calculated that I need to have a good cry at least once every two weeks. As long as I give myself an outlet (a sad movie, looking at pictures of abandoned puppies, watching the latest presidential press conference...whatever), I can prevent sudden outbursts...kind of like controlled burning during fire season.

7) ACID: There's nothing like the flavor of stomach acid working it's way up your throat and out of your mouth in the middle of the night...mmm, MMM!

8) SWEAT: Severe hormone fluctuations can cause night sweats. Did you know that a pregnant woman produces 150 times the estrogen during her pregnancy than a non-pregnant woman will produce during a lifetime? Let's just say that the mattress pad may have to be removed to the same biohazard container as the pillow.

9) MILK: I haven't experienced any breast leakage yet, but trust me, when I do you'll hear the screaming.

10) WATER: Last but not least is the one fluid that your body actually wants to retain. Again, how can it retain so much water when you're peeing all the time? Go figure. Fluid retention, though, not only causes the classic symptom of swollen feet. I have carpal tunnel syndrome. CARPAL TUNNEL! Just from being pregnant! Do I scan groceries? NO. Do I do data entry? NO. Do I perform hand jobs for money? NO. NO! NO!! I should not have carpal tunnel! Grrr....



Sorry to digress, back to my main point...

The last 24 hours have been absurd. I keep thinking that I must be the butt of some evil OB/GYN hidden camera experiment to see how far a Dr can go to humiliate a patient. You're probably wondering why and how I had to collect all of my urine for 24 hours. Let's start with the why. Ever had to pee in one of those little plastic cups for the Dr or a random drug test? Well, that only measures what's in a little bit of your pee at a specific time. With the 24 hour test they can analyze what's in all of your pee for a whole day. It's more thorough or some bullshit like that. Then there's the how. This is where it gets good.

1) Go to lab and procure Urine Containment Unit (figure 1), which must be kept in your refrigerator next to your produce and Gatorade.

2) Every time you must urinate (that is, every half hour or so), collect all urine in Urine Collection Apparatus (figure 2).

3) Transfer urine from the UCA to the UCU.

4) If you must leave home during 24 hour period, make sure to pack at least 2 Urine Transport Devices (figure 3) in your bag so as not to lose a single drop.

5) When, at the 20th hour, at 3:30am, you discover that you have completely filled your 3 liter UCU, say fuck it, dump the rest of your urine down the sink, and go to bed.

You may think I'm kidding, but I'm really, really not. Have you ever carried around 2 mason jars of your own pee in your tote bag? It's, um, awkward. So how were your last 24 hours?

P.S. For those of you who've read this far, the quote from the title is from last night's episode of The Office which was all about peeing in cups. It seemed apropos.

This Sucks.

So I haven't been able to post for a while now because Ian and I have been working like beasts trying to pack and move these past two weeks, leaving our lives in a blog-free chaos. Actually, we still don't have our internet access back up (thanks, Earthlink), and I am currently creating this blog entry on Ian's laptop in a Starbucks where we are paying exhorbitant wireless fees for the pleasure of checking our e-mail. I figured as long as we were paying for an hour I was going to get my money's worth and post an entry as well.

It is said that the three most stressful things in life are:

Moving
A death/birth in the family
Losing/finding a job

...and we are doing all three at one time. Joy. Needless to say, we are both emotional, mental, and physical wrecks right now. Ian has been going to bed at 11:00 (a bedtime ridiculously early for my nocturnal husband) the past few nights if that gives you any idea about how utterly exhausted we are. We are both covered in bruises and feel like various extremities are just about ready to fall right off of our bodies. Good times. Our new house, though, is pretty cool. We are adjusting to the conveniences that a newer house has to offer, like central air (YAY!), lots of electrical sockets, and a dishwasher! This is the first time I have ever rented a house built after 1950, so all of these things are new and exciting to me.

Anyways, even though I'm not quite Little Mary Pregnant Sunshine at the moment, I still needed to post a blog because I never got to post my belly update from my Drs appointment last week. So, for your statistical edification:

Total weight gain since conception: 15 pounds
Approximate baby weight: 4 pounds
Fundal height: 33 centimeters
Belly circumference: ? (I packed my measuring tape)

This picture was taken the day we moved out...goodbye old house! I guess from now on I will have to find a new bush to pose in front of.

The Heat is On!

It has been frikkin' HOT this week--as all of you know, unless you live in a cell with no windows or doors--and I have finally discovered why pregnant women don't like heat. It makes you swell up like a goddamned freshly-cooked sausage! I have had to put my wedding ring away for safe-keeping until after the baby is born (which Ian is not happy about, but I'm sure he'd be even less happy with a nine-fingered wife), and my Birkenstocks have become the only shoe I can stand to wear. I want the second trimester back! Wah!

I've definitely gotten over my ambivalence of a few weeks ago when I wasn't sure how I felt about being ready to give birth...I'm ready now! Bring it on! Ian asked me this week how I felt about only having 2 months of freedom left. I laughed at this and asked him how he figured I was currently "free." I am enslaved by a violent baby 24/7 who controls my body and emotions. I'm not sure how that is "freedom." Freedom to me, I told him, is the freedom to actually hand the baby over to him, kiss them both goodbye, and hit the town with my girlfriends for a night of drinking alcohol and highly-caffeinated beverages, eating sushi and soft cheeses, and wearing a killer pair of shoes. (Please, God, please let my shoes still fit after I give birth!!!) I think the better question is how do you feel about your last 2 months of freedom? Heh heh heh. If only I could make his feet swell up.

Motardmageddon II: Idiot Parent Pre-eclampsia

I guess there is something about being pregnant (or trying to get pregnant) that heightens your awareness of bad parenting going on around you. (Note Ian's frustration in Motardmaggedon 1.) That said, it's time for a rant. I was in the Dr's office today for my check up, and, lucky me, I got to sit there for almost an hour because the receptionist forgot to pull my file when I checked in and so the nurse didn't know I was there. Now, I could go on about the ineptitude of my Dr's office and the foolishness of making a 7-month pregnant woman wait for an hour and so forth, but actually, I understand that mistakes do happen, and that my Dr was not purposefully trying to torture me. Plus, when my nurse finally saw me sitting there, she 1) recognized me, which, as many of you may know, is a big deal in a busy OB practice and 2) she immediately made a big apologetic fuss and brought me in right away, cutting into both her and the Dr's lunch time. So, all is forgiven and I am not angry with them. What I am angry about are the motards I had to suffer in the waiting room.

Let me set the stage: This is a big practice with 6 different Drs with lots of patients, obviously necessitating a large waiting room. The room is lovely and spacious and typically a comfortable place to wait. Comfortable, that is, until two running, screaming, 2-ish-year-old boys are using it as their own personal play yard. Now, I know what some may say...they are two-year-old boys and genetically predisposed to run wild. These kids, though, were racing around the waiting room, screaming loudly, throwing a small plastic ball and then crawling underneath people's chairs to retrieve it, and generally behaving in a manner barely acceptable outdoors, let alone in an area where pregnant women (already not the most graceful creatures on the planet) should be allowed to walk unimpeded by little screaming obstacles. More than once I saw one of these boys slam into a pregnant woman trying to make her way across the room. Thoughts of the litigation that could accompany a horrible accident kept running through my head, and I seriously began to wish that Supernanny had some sort of hotline to call to report obscenely bad parenting.

And what of the parents? you may ask. They (The mom and dad of one boy and the solo mom of the other) were sitting in the corner of the waiting room chatting away as if nothing was amiss, blithely ignoring the glares of the other patients. Every once in a while they would call out a token "Tyler, come back here" or "Damien, settle down" (I actually forget the name of the second boy, so I made up my own), which the boys would completely ignore and which the parents never followed through on. This went on for quite a while until an older nurse popped her head out and chided the young boys for their behavior, telling them that somebody was going to get hurt. After this, the parents, apparently humbled by the reprimand of an authority figure, made a genuine effort to control their children for all of five minutes. They got up out of their seats (shocking!) and carried the now screaming boys back to the corner of the waiting room where they tried to calm them down and amuse them with some sort of game. Once the threat of the nurse had dissipated, though, the kids went right back to running around. At one point the dad, who seemed to have a slightly deeper sense of discipline than the moms, put on his best "firm voice" and told his son to "Come sit down RIGHT NOW." The little boy turned around and replied, I kid you not, "NO!" I was stunned. Surely, I thought, this kid has finally brought the smack down on himself. I was actually afraid for the little monster, possibly because the thought of what one of my parents would have done if I had told them "NO" was still deeply enough ingrained in my psyche as to cause me actual terror. Holding my breath, I waited for the response. Waited...waited...waited...THE FATHER DID NOTHING!!!!! He ignored the boy, who went on with his running and screaming, while I sat there fighting back the onset of an apopletic fit.

When did it become OK for kids to behave like this? When did it become OK for little kids to tell their parents "No"? How stupid do you have to be to not realize that you are failing as a parent when your children behave in such a way and blatantly flout your authority? And, most importantly, why in God's name are you sitting in an OB office pregnant with your next kid when you already can't control the ones you have?!

It was at this moment that I looked down at my giant belly and promised Twitch that her and I would never have this problem. The day she decides to look at me and say "NO!"...the one time this happens...will be a day carved forever in her memory, even if buried deep in her subconscious. If this makes me un-PC, so be it. I would rather be seen as an overly strict authoritarian than as an irresponsible motard who put an entire room full of pregnant women in danger. I would rather my child fear me then feel good about herself while ruining everybody else's morning. I tell you this now, Twitch--you can scream all you want, but I am bigger, stronger, and smarter than you. I am the parent, and I have the power to make you behave. It is just that simple.

It was at this point that I finally got to go in to see the Dr, and when the nurse took my blood pressure, it was (surprise!) high, causing her and the Dr to get worried looks on their faces and start talking about the danger of pre-eclampsia. The Dr started to tell me about the symptoms of pre-eclampsia and what to look out for, until I pointed out that possibly my blood pressure was high because I sat forgotten in the waiting room being accosted by ill-behaved two-year-olds for an hour. The nurse kind of chuckled and agreed with my self-diagnosis. "Maybe we should wait and see how her levels look next visit, Dr."

Let this be a warning to all you motard parents out there...the inability to control your children can lead to pre-eclampsia in innocent pregnant women; so USE SOME SENSE!

Oh, and in case you're keeping up with such things, here is my belly update for this visit:

Total weight gain since conception: 13 pounds
Approximate baby weight: 3.5-4 pounds
Fundal height: 32 cm
Belly circumference: 47 inches

Motardmageddon: Idiot Child Apocalypse

Every single time I point out that children are like monkeys, only less intelligent and more belligerent, some flaky motard who believes in the purity and innocence of children pipes up. Because My new world order will need people around to mop floors and clean sewage I refrain from beating them senseless. Why then, one might ask, does the Master say that children are like monkeys? Simple. Allow Me to explain this aspect of the world to you, My apprentice.

Here is a story:

A couple was shopping with their child, who had two years of experience in the world. While they were pushing the cart, their child, who was cursed with their genes, was cavorting and capering from inside the cart. The danger to the child's brain was high, perforce, as the sharp and sudden contact with the ground that was likely to occur would splatter said brain all over the store. Then, in a flash of lightning and a booming thunder, the hero of this tale appears. The couple neared the meat and seafood counter of the store, and for the rest of this tale, a biblical tone will be used, as there is a lesson to be learned here:

8 And they did approach the counter where the meats and fruits of the seas were kept, and their child did continue to endanger himself, for lo, they were Motards, and with this malady did they also afflict the child.

9 It came to pass, moreover, that the Master of this place, a butcher, did see these things as they did occur.

10 This butcher was of exceptional grace, moreover, and was known for his wisdom, which did rival that of Solomon in his early years, and did leave the wisdom of certain other elders as if biting unto the dust.

11 It was noted by this man that the child was not at fault, for, verily, it is said that if a tree or fruiting body be accursed with rot and Motardness, so too must the fruits of that entity be also accursed.

12 And because he did not prophecy that all was lost, he did undertake to protect the child from its own heedlessness and debaucheries.

13 In a voice resonating with power, he did say:

14 Aroint ye, thou miscreant! Thou wast cast into the outer darkness at birth, through no fault of thine. Thus do I bring ye back into the Light! Seat thyself! And properly in thy cart, lo, for an I see but a mustard seed of foolishness my wroth will be greater still than it is now, and many will taste of the dust, and there will be wailing and the gnashings of teeth!

15 And the child did hear, and was afeared. And so did the child at last come to be seated correctly in the cart, and the danger to the brain was averted thereof.

16 The parents of the child were amazed, for they had made a feeble attempt, with but half a heart, to accomplish the same ends anon, but had been rebuffed by the child, and had thereunto ceased to attempt this feat, for lo, it is said that those with the hearts and minds of poxy sheep do behave in such a manner, and it is even as the prophets say.

17 Whereupon they did ask of the butcher, How is it that you can command our child? Long has he resisted our words; long has been our suffering. Do ye possess some grace of which we knoweth not?

18 Yes, said he, I do, for understanding hath been given to me that children are like unto the beasts of the trees, and must be commanded in a firm tone to cease that which is dangerous unto them. It is my way to know that children are not equipped, verily, to make unto this world their own decisions, and must be guided by a hand wiser and greater than theirs. If such a hand must come from outside the family then so be it, for should I allow Motardness to claim the lives of children who are innocent despite themselves, would then I not be even as are ye, a blight upon creation and all that is?

19 And all around did they hear, and were amazed, for this was new to them. And they were also afeared, for one such as this was truly a giant bestriding the earth.

20 And one of those gathered did say, Thou art truly a great man, and a lord of mysteries.

21 And he did reply, Damn skippy, muthafucka.

The lesson is thus: if you do not want to be considered a motard, be a parent to your children, and require obedience and respect. If you want to be friends with your children, be prepared to have a lot of conversations about prison food and tossed salad.

TWITCH, take note. I make this vow to you. I will personally guarantee that I will see through every stratagem, every manipulation, every ruse that you try on Me. I will always have My Burning Eye on you. I will know where you are, what you are doing, who you are with, what you say, and what you think. If it ever appears that I have missed a trick or been fooled, rest assured: I am just following a plan more sinister and complicated than you could understand, and you are just digging a deeper hole if you think otherwise. That oppresive pressure you feel on the back of your neck is Me watching you, and that oppresive pressure you feel in your ass is My foot, punishing you for screwing up. I will not raise a drooling monkey, and you will thank Me for My care when you finally understand. This will probably be on the day you strangle the life out of Me and seize control. On that day, My pride will know no bounds, and as you crush My trachea know that your Father cries tears of happiness, and be content.

Private Parts to the Gods Are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 2

TWITCH, Mighty Fetus, Cruel Tyrant, Crusher of Bladders, Destroyer of Worlds.

Actually, Shiva is the Destroyer of Worlds.

Fetuses (Fetii?) cost a lot of money. Babies even more so. Why then, when I tell people that I need a job and can't find one, do they always say (wait for it):

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

In a perfect world, that is, a world run by Me, this would follow:

--Smiling "Really?" Gleaming teeth emerge from behind tightly grimacing lips
--Cannibal holocaust ensues
--Raspberry Iced Tea Snapple washes down unsatisfying meal of motard
--Smiling "You know what, I do feel better." ERA detergent used to wash clothes, because protein gets out protein

I want a job, not empty platitudes. Just being this cool is exhausting, let alone all of My other reponsibilities. I don't have the energy it takes to keep on plowing through Motard Optimism with an unchanged demeanor.

In the Real(ly pathetic) World, this will have to do:

--Smiling "You'll be okay, just have patience." Sparkling sunbeams emerge from behind gleaming teeth

--"Thank you. I'm sure it will. I have to go now, swallowing this much bile is enough to sicken even My iron constitution."

Private Parts to the Gods are We, They Play with Us for Their Sport, Part 1

Anybody who knows anything about Me knows that I find pointless optimism annoying. Few things gall Me more than having someone say "You'll be okay," or "Everything will work out." These things may be true, but they may also be false, to wit:

1. Bad things still happen to good people, and good things to bad people.

2. If you've ever thought that you hit the bottom I am positive someone came along and showed you just how much farther you could fall, probably by pushing you.

3. Die, optimist, if you think I had more than two things to say on the subject.

"Why are you raging about this subject, Master?" you might ask yourself. In this regard I look forward to completing your training, so that this question is never asked again.

This is the phrase I hear most often: "You'll do fine, XXXX, just be patient." I hear this all of the time. I want to strangle these people with dental floss. People with Lou Gehrig's disease, like, say, Lou Gehrig, can be patient all they want. It ain't gettin' better. Sometimes things just start in a state of suck, and progress into more advanced levels of suck. Sometimes, your miserable life unlocks the codes to access the hidden, secret levels of suck. Then, see if you have the patience to beat the game. I don't.

What does this have to do with TWITCH, you ask. TWITCH is the reason I hear this. TWITCH is what makes everyone so sure than everything will work out.

More on this to come...